


i saw an island sky (it wasn't all blue)

by gracieminabox



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Illnesses, M/M, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 22:43:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11541954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracieminabox/pseuds/gracieminabox
Summary: Really, Phil was just passing through.(Does NOT take place in the same universe as "the way our horizons meet" and its companions.)





	i saw an island sky (it wasn't all blue)

Nobody – absolutely _nobody_ – declined admission to the UCSF School of Medicine. Not even if it required that one toss one’s brand new shiny masters degree in the backseat of a twelve year old Chevy with a temperamental clutch and finicky AC and drive clear across the country during the hottest May in decades. 

 _Worth it_ , Phil thought, wiping his brow with one hand and steering with the other, then banging hard on the side of the center console in hopes of kicking the AC back on. _Worth it. Worth it. Worth it._ Perhaps if he said it enough times, it would magically become true, and wouldn’t that just be delightful? He rolled his neck, hearing it crack with a reverberating noise, and blindly adjusted the volume on the music coming from his phone.

He was two days in and a third of the way done with his driving, and for a brief moment, he couldn’t remember what state he was in. That was a hint that he needed to stop for the night – catch a shower, get some calories into him, and go to bed.

He flipped on his turn signal to get off the 80 and looked around. _Iowa. Right. I’m in Iowa._

Driving down a semi-upscale stretch of road – obviously one of the main arteries through…whatever the hell town this was – Phil’s eye caught a fairly nice, independent-looking hotel up ahead on the right. _Enterprise Inn and Suites_ , the sign read. It was well-lit, and in an urban enough area that Phil didn’t fear being burgled or murdered in the night, so he went ahead and pulled into their driveway. It was obviously going to run him more than a Motel 6, but so what? He had the cash for now, and it’s not like he’d have any time for luxury after med school began.

The surprisingly kind and helpful woman at the front desk got him checked in to a room on the fourth floor. Phil drowned himself in the shower for twenty minutes, changed his clothes, and thought, _hell, if I’m shelling out for a room like this, I might as well go all the way_ before heading downstairs to the small restaurant/bar just off the lobby. He thought he’d heard music in there earlier.

He walked in, and lo and behold, he was right – an acoustic trio had set up on a stage in the far corner. The guitar player was center stage and singing, something about pride and open doors and “an island sky” (which seemed an odd thing to sing about in the geographic middle of the country), but it was the sound of that voice that sent an altogether unexpected frisson of _something_ up Phil’s spine.

Phil drew closer to the little stage. There was something about this guy that drew Phil to him like a magnet, and Phil felt like he needed to be _closer closer more._

Then the song ended, the singer spoke to thank the audience for their smattering of applause, and his voice – _warm deep rich chocolaty smooth fucking hell I’m in trouble_ – sent Phil scrambling for the nearest chair in reach before his knees full-on gave out.

He ordered something – he didn’t remember what and he barely tasted it – and continued to listen. A couple times, the singer looked up and seemed to make eye contact with Phil, who smiled fondly; but it was hard for Phil to tell if more than a momentary connection had been made there. When they called for a ten minute break, Phil settled at the bar, thinking this might be his opportunity to chat this guy up – but he seemed to dash out of the room, only coming back down right before their break time was up.

 _What the hell_ , Phil thought. He had time. He ordered a drink and listened for the second set.

 

~

 

“You watched.”

The melted-chocolate voice spoke from behind Phil’s shoulder. He turned, and there the singer was, with curly hair, tired blue eyes, and a loosened tie over a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.

“You sang,” Phil replied, smiling.

The singer laughed a little and shrugged, sitting at the barstool next to Phil. “It’s my job.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Chris Pike.”

Phil took his hand; it was slightly larger than Phil’s, with longer fingers, and even that minor, G-rated content dizzied him. “Phil Boyce.”

“You want your usual, Chris?” the bartender asked.

Chris nodded tiredly. “Thanks, Mia.”

“You’re good,” Phil said, hoping that the little hitch in his voice didn’t make the sentence a double entendre. “You’re _really_ good.”

“Well, thanks,” Chris said, _cheers_ ing the air with his glass before taking a swig.

They were silent for a moment, but for the electricity that crackled between them. Then, Chris cleared his throat.

“So,” he said roughly, “what are you doing in Bumfuck Nowhere, Iowa?”

Phil chuckled. “Just paying Room 409 a visit for the night,” he answered.

“Where you headed?”

“San Francisco.”

A funny look came over Chris’ face; his smile grew more broad, but it looked slightly sad, slightly wistful. “San Francisco,” he murmured. “I used to live there.”

“Did you?”

Chris nodded. “Yeah. Before I moved here.”

Phil cocked his head; the prickle on the back of his neck told him there was a story there, but he intuited that it might be too soon to ask about it. “How long have you been playing here?” he asked instead.

“Four years,” Chris answered, taking another sip.

Phil raised his eyebrows. “Not that I would know, but I think that’s a pretty rare accomplishment, for a working musician to hold a steady gig for four years.”

Chris shrugged. “Yeah, well,” he said softly, “I have an ulterior motive.”

Phil cocked his head again. This time, Chris looked up at him.

“I live here,” he clarified.

“You…live here,” Phil repeated. “In the hotel, you mean?”

“Yeah,” Chris answered. “I help them bring in business four nights a week, they cut me a break on the rate for our room.”

Phil’s heart sank just a little. _“Our_ room?”

Chris seemed to be kicking himself internally just a little bit for saying too much, but reluctantly answered. “Me and my son.”

“Oh,” Phil said on a relieved breath, the smile returning to his face. “You have a son? How old is he?”

Chris swallowed visibly. “Twelve,” he answered. “So, why are you going to San Francisco?” he asked, changing the subject smoothly. “Career change?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Phil said. “Medical school.” Chris’ eyes bugged a little, and Phil laughed. “Yeah. UCSF.”

“Wow,” Chris said. _“Wow._ Med school. That’s awesome. What specialty do you want to do?”

“Ob/gyn, probably,” Phil answered. “Maybe emergency. I’m an RN, and I worked nights at an ED while I was getting my masters, so I know emergency pretty well, but…I dunno. My heart tells me to stick with ob/gyn.”

Chris smiled. “That’s pretty incredible,” he said lowly, and Phil watched as his eyes changed from slate to sky to denim. “You’re impressing me, Phil Boyce.”

“You’re doing likewise, Chris Pike.”

They looked at one another in silence, the fading background bar noise dwindling to nothing. The air felt thick and heavy with sexual tension; Phil had had his share of flirtations and lovers before, but _never_ anything like this, _never_ this immediate, instantaneous _pull_. He was inching a little bit closer, trying to work up the nerve to kiss Chris, or at the very least propose they reconvene in his room, when –

“I, um,” Chris said, his voice gravelly and rumbling, “I should go. Check on my kid.”

Something directly under Phil’s heart stomped its foot and started screaming at the unfairness of the moment.

“Yeah,” Phil whispered, before repeating it in a normal voice. “Yeah, I guess you should.”

Chris continued to look at Phil; it was a piercing, burning look, as if Chris could see straight through any sort of veneer Phil might’ve been using to protect his very soul from analysis. It was as thrilling as it was unsettling. 

“Good to meet you, Phil,” he whispered, starting to walk off – but Phil grabbed him by the wrist.

“Meet me for breakfast tomorrow?” he blurted.

Chris paused, looking back at Phil.

“I mean,” Phil continued, “the room service guide said something about the best eggs Florentine in the midwest, so…”

Chris stayed silent and contemplative for a moment, then nodded. “It’s summer,” he said softly. “Jim won’t be up until eleven at least. I can sneak away around eight-thirty.”

Phil grinned. “Jim’s your boy?”

Chris smiled, then looked at the floor. “Yeah,” he whispered, “Jim’s my boy.”

Phil felt warm and happy all over. “Eight-thirty tomorrow,” he said. “It’s a date.”

 

~

 

They didn’t make it to eight-thirty. 

Chris opened the door to Room 153 and found it completely silent. The living room of the suite was littered with Jim’s books, clothes, and other detritus, as per usual; there was a sliver of light on the ground coming from underneath the bathroom door – a poor man’s night light and an old habit of Chris’ from when he first adopted Jim and the boy was too freaked to sleep in total darkness – and Jim was in his bed in the smaller bedroom, sprawled out and sound asleep. Chris smiled in at Jim, bent to pick up his bath towel off the floor – _still wet, dammit kid_ – and chucked it in the hamper.

Then he sat on the loveseat in the main room, ran a hand through his hair, and thought. 

It wasn’t but a few minutes later that he was knocking on the door to Room 409. Phil answered it in a t-shirt and long sleep pants, hair tousled, a pair of glasses he hadn’t been wearing earlier askew on his face. He beamed. 

“Chris,” he murmured happily.

“Hi,” Chris greeted awkwardly, looking Phil up and down.

Phil leaned against the door frame. “What brings you here?”

Chris swallowed thickly, feeling the prickle under his skin go from a tiny little simmer to a rolling boil. Then, without stopping to think about it any further, he grabbed Phil by the shoulders, pushed him back into his room, and crushed their lips together.

 

~

 

Phil woke up to a room that smelled like sex, a pleasantly achy body, and… _an empty room?_

He wiped the sleep from his eyes and looked around. “Chris?” he called blearily. He reached over to the night table to put on his glasses, then saw the note right next to them. 

_Went to check on things – meet you downstairs at 8:30. – C_

Phil looked at the clock – it was barely six – and grinned. Plenty of time to lie in bed and replay the heavenly, fucking _unreal_ events of last night.

 

~

 

Chris looked up as Phil walked into the Enterprise’s restaurant and smiled, a private, sly little smile. Phil smiled back, just barely wiggling his eyebrows, then sat down across from Chris. 

“I went ahead and ordered you the eggs Florentine,” Chris said, nodding to the plate.

“Perfect,” Phil said, sipping his coffee, “thank you.”

They ate and exchanged silent, smiley looks, barely restraining giggles that were completely unbecoming for a couple of men in their thirties, before finally, Chris spoke.

“Okay, well,” he said, “historically, I seem to remember that this conversation typically happens _before_ the, ah, _dialogue_ we had overnight” – Phil snorted – “but tell me about yourself.”

Phil smiled serenely, swiping a bit of spinach through the hollandaise remaining on his plate. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, at the moment, I only know your name, that you’re a nurse and a med student, and that you give the most mind-melting blowjob I’ve ever experienced in my life.”

Phil’s eyes bugged out and he looked around, trying to gauge if they were being heard. “Chris…” 

“Relax, nobody’s listening,” Chris said. “So. Fill in the blanks.” 

Phil nodded. “Right. Okay. Well, I’m from Maine. Went to school in Boston. Undergrad degrees in biology and psychology, nursing degree, masters in public health. Yes, addicted to degrees.” He shrugged. “Two sisters and a brother. Nonsmoker. Bi, agnostic, Cancer, never married, no children. Vegetarian. Am I missing anything?” 

“Probably,” Chris said. “But I think you got the basics.” 

Phil leaned over the table, stirring his coffee and making thorough eye contact with Chris. “And you?” 

Chris smiled reluctantly. “Turnabout’s fair play.”

“It would seem.”

He sighed. “From California. Marine corps, retired. Degree in sociology. Only child. Quit smoking in ’08. Also bi, also agnostic, Capricorn…I think, never married, one kid. Not vegetarian.”

Phil nodded amenably. “I can live with that.” 

“You better,” Chris grumbled teasingly. “You’ll pry my bacon out of my cold dead hands.”

Phil folded his arms on the table and leaned in. “Favorite color?” 

“Green. You?”

“Blue.” 

“Boring,” Chris said without malice. “Middle name?”

“John. You?”

“Vincent.”

“Okay. Vital statistics done,” Phil laughed, then sobered. “Question.” Chris looked up with raised eyebrows, as if urging Phil to continue. “You said you used to live in San Francisco.” Chris nodded. “So…what made you move to Iowa City, of all places?”

Chris looked down into his coffee cup, then smiled resignedly. “You have a gift, Phil, for dredging up the deep dark shit right off the bat.”

“You don’t have to answer,” Phil assured him. “I get the feeling it’s not a great story.”

“No, it’s great, if you want entertainment value,” Chris sighed. “It’s shitty if you’re one of the principal players.”

Phil stayed silent. 

Chris scrubbed his face, paused for a long while, then nodded. “Okay. All right, okay. I’ll tell you about it.”

Phil leaned in closer as Chris began to speak.

“You know how I said I was a Marine.” Phil nodded. “So was Jim’s dad.”

Phil frowned, puzzled. “But – ”

“His biological dad,” Chris continued. He took a visibly deep breath. “George was my best friend. We went to high school together, we went into the service together…he was the brother I never got.” Chris swallowed. “When his wife was pregnant with their second baby, we both got called up for a second deployment. I came back. He didn’t.”

Phil closed his eyes. “Jesus. I’m sorry.”

Chris nodded. “Winona – George’s wife – she left San Francisco after he died. She couldn’t stand to be around stuff that reminded her of him, including me, so she came back here, where she was from. Had her second baby. They moved in with her brother. She went catatonic for a while, then workaholic for a lot longer.” Phil could see a little tremor in Chris’ jaw as he continued to speak. “Frank Duncan – Winona’s brother – is a vicious son of a bitch, and he treated her boys like shit. They told Winona, and she said she’d do something about it, but she never did. When he was twelve, Sam – the older one – he got full and ran away from home. Hasn’t been seen since. That’s when things got really bad for the younger one.” 

“Jim,” Phil murmured.

Chris pursed his lips, then nodded. “One night, Win was at work, not answering her phone, because of course not…and Frank got so into it with Jim that he broke Jim’s clavicle. He sure as shit wasn’t going to take Jim to the hospital – child abuser’s code, you know, don’t aid and abet the discovery of your stain on society – so Jim got out and walked. Two miles. To a _bus station_. He was gonna take a bus from Riverside to the hospital up here in Iowa City. He tried to pay for a ticket in quarters and singles from his piggy bank, for chrissakes.”

Phil was dizzy. “How old was he?” 

“Eight.”

Phil thought he might throw up. Chris continued.

“Anyway, a woman at the bus station was, mercifully, alert enough to realize that something wasn’t right. She called the police, they took him to the hospital in Cedar Rapids, and when they asked him who they should call for him, he gave my name.” Chris sipped his coffee. “I flew out from SFO, there was a brief custody tussle, and he was legally mine by the end of the month. Stayed here because I didn’t want to uproot him, after everything he’d been through. I sold my condo and turned my two-night stay here into a permanent residence.”

Phil and Chris sat in a silence very unlike the crackling sexual electricity that had punctuated their previous silences.

“Jesus, Chris,” Phil mumbled.

Chris reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone. The wallpaper on the home screen was a picture of a toeheaded preadolescent boy with bright blue eyes and a shy looking grin.

“That’s Jim,” Chris said softly. “James Tiberius.” 

Phil smiled at the picture. “He kinda even looks like you.” 

“Me? No,” Chris laughed. “No. Spitting image of George.” 

Phil slowly handed the phone back. “He’s lucky to have you.”

Chris looked at the screen, then nodded a little and put it back in his pocket. “So,” he said with faux casualness, “when do you have to be in San Francisco?”

Phil looked up; Chris wasn’t making eye contact. A little grin crossed Phil’s face. “I don’t have any obligations there for another week.”

Chris nodded, still not making eye contact. “And it’s gonna take you what…another, oh, three days to get there? Four?”

“Something like that.”

Chris pursed his lips. “So…if you _wanted_ to stay in Iowa another day…you might have liberty to do that?”

Phil felt a little thrill go through his pulse. “I might.”

Finally, Chris looked up at him; his eyes were dancing just the tiniest bit, and his lips were tight like he was concealing a smile. “I’m off tonight.” 

The thrill in Phil’s pulse traveled lower. “How…delightful.”

Chris full-on grinned now. “If you give me a little time to square Jim away with the Playstation, then we could – ” He was cut off by a tone from his phone. He sighed, reached into his pocket, and looked at it.

_where r u? doc appt at 9:30_

“Shit,” Chris hissed. _“Shit.”_

Phil frowned. “Chris? What is it?” 

“I forgot,” Chris muttered. “I _completely_ forgot. Jim has an appointment with his allergist in twenty minutes and _I forgot_. Dammit.”

“Do you need to call them? Tell them you’ll be late?” Phil offered.

“No, no, it’s fine, we can get there in time. I just…I just _forgot.”_ Chris stomped his foot a tiny bit, angry with himself, then turned to Phil. “I…look, you’re staying tonight, right?” 

Phil nodded. “Yeah, for sure.”

“Okay, good,” Chris said, nodding. “Good. We’ll talk more later, okay? Promise.”

“Yeah,” Phil said. “Okay. Yeah.”

Chris darted off to Room 153, and Phil sat in the restaurant, chasing a stray piece of spinach around his plate.

 

~

 

Chris showed back up at the door of Room 409 around one that afternoon. Phil let him into the room and they twined their arms around one another.

“What do you have in mind for today?” Phil asked.

“Well,” Chris said, hanging the _Do Not Disturb_ sign on the doorknob with intent, “I left my son with specific instructions to not call me unless he’s bleeding from the head or the room’s on fire, and I thought either I could show you more of the metropolis that is Iowa City…or more of me.” 

Phil grinned, set his glasses down on top of the TV, and tugged Chris down onto the bed with him.

  
~

 

Chris woke first, hours later, immediately wracking his mental thesaurus for synonyms for _sore as fuck_ , a filament of guilt threading its way up from the depths of his thoughts, growing and growing until it stopped being ignorable. Curled into his side, Phil snuffled, then looked up at Chris with a sweet smile.

“Hello,” he mumbled.

Chris tried to smile back. “Hi there.”

Phil tightened his grip around Chris’ middle momentarily, then reached up and pecked him on the lips, looking at him with something approaching adoration. “I’m gonna stay tomorrow, too,” he said softly.

Chris twined his fingers in the baby fine hairs at the nape of Phil’s neck. He didn’t mean to; it just kind of happened. “That’s gonna mean you’re cutting it awfully close, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Phil admitted, making highly intentional eye contact with Chris. “I don’t care.”

Chris closed his eyes and looked away. That guilt ribbon was getting wider and wider.

“Chris?” Phil asked. “What is it?”

Chris looked up at the ceiling, clenching and releasing the hand on his forehead, and tried to figure out how to say it. Finally, he turned to Phil and decided to be direct.

“You have to go.”

Phil jolted as if Chris had just slapped him and Chris immediately regretted the sentence. 

“That’s…that’s not quite what I meant,” he said. “What I meant was…look. You _are_ leaving. And I’m not. Believe me, I _wish_ I was, but I’m not.”

Phil tilted his head to the side. “Why aren’t you?”

Chris frowned at the non sequitur. “What?”

“Why _aren’t_ you leaving?” Phil leaned up on one elbow. “Look, I don’t want to spout any fairytale bullshit, but you and your boy _could_ come with me. You could go home if you wanted to. Jim would love San Francisco, and somehow I suspect the job opportunities for you would be a little better there.”

Chris shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “I just can’t, Phil.” Phil was shaking his head, about to protest, but Chris cut him off. “Look, if it was just me? If I was the only person I was responsible for? Absolutely. In a heartbeat. Let’s go now. But it’s not. I told you what Jim’s been through; I can’t take him away from the only home he’s ever known on top of everything else.” Chris sat up and scrubbed his face, letting the flat sheet fall down from his chest.

Phil swallowed. Since the moment he’d made eye contact with Chris in the bar the previous night – and certainly since he’d pulled Chris into his bed – he’d been actively ignoring the fact that, eventually, he was going to have to leave. As much of a thrill it still gave him to think about going to one of the best medical schools in the world, somehow, that ecstasy was tempered by the knowledge that he’d have to leave this man he’d met only twenty-four hours ago, but who in that time had crept into the ventricles of his heart, pulsing out bliss with every heartbeat.

He had no idea how this had happened so fast. He only knew that he did not want it to stop. Indeed, that he could not _bear_ it to stop.

“You gonna tell me you don’t feel this?” Phil dared to say.

“Of _course_ I feel it,” Chris answered. “I’m…” He swallowed audibly. “I think I’m getting addicted to you.” 

Phil melted a little bit, sitting up and putting a firm hand on the back of Chris’ neck, then running it down his spine. “Addicted,” he echoed.

“Phil,” Chris said, in that low voice that had brought Phil to his knees, literally and metaphorically, the previous night, “I haven’t dated anybody since I adopted Jim. I haven’t _slept_ with anybody since I adopted Jim. Not until this.” 

Phil let a pause hang, then shrugged. “Okay?” he said, not sure exactly how to respond.

“Yesterday, I went to check on Jim for five minutes, then came up here with you,” Chris said morosely. “This morning, I forgot his doctor’s appointment. Then I sat him down on the couch with a stack of books and a video game controller and told him not to bug me unless hell itself ascended, all because I wanted to spend the day getting laid. What’ll I do tomorrow?” Chris looked back at Phil. “I don’t want this to end, but it’s _going_ to, and until it does, I’m not being a very good father.” 

A dart of shame and pain shot through Phil’s heart at the notion that he might be compromising Chris’ relationship with his son. “That’s…that’s not what I want,” he said quietly. “You know that, right?” 

“I know, I know,” Chris sighed. “It’s just…Jesus, Phil, I’m trying _really_ hard not to fall back on that _it’s not you it’s me_ bullshit, but…”

“But it’s not me, it’s you. Got it.” Phil said quietly.

This silence between them was not struck through with sexual electricity or with heavy shock. It was just… _sad_. In the purest sense of the term.

“I’ll leave in the morning,” Phil said softly, closing his eyes against the hurt of the words.

Chris threw an arm around Phil and kissed his temple. “I’m so sorry, Phil.” 

“No,” Phil said steadily. “No, it’s okay. It’ll be okay. Tomorrow would’ve been great, but you’re probably right. Clean break.”

_Tomorrow would’ve been great. A month would’ve been great. Forever would’ve been great._

Neither of them said it out loud.

 

~

 

Chris kissed Phil goodbye at his door before going downstairs to have an unusually quiet dinner with Jim.

Phil left at five-thirty the following morning with the shards of his broken heart on top of his masters degree in the backseat.

 

~

 

“So, where were you yesterday?”

Chris looked up from staring at nothing; Jim was picking at the sesame beef Chris hadn’t finished the previous night.

“Um,” Chris began articulately, trying to figure out how exactly to explain it to a twelve-year-old boy. “I was, ah, out. With someone.”

Jim boggled. “You had a _date?”_ he squeaked.

“No!” Chris immediately corrected. “No. No, not a _date_ …exactly. I mean…I guess, depending on your definition, it _might’ve_ been a date…it kind of…well…” He paused; Jim was looking at Chris with a mix of befuddlement and rapt interest, and Chris sighed heavily. “Yeah, sure, I was on a date,” he finally caved.

Jim didn’t seem to notice the piece of beef fall off his fork. “With who?”

“With _whom,”_ Chris absently corrected. “Eat your dinner.”

Jim shoveled a forkful in his mouth without taking his expectant eyes off Chris. 

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose, taking momentary comfort in the certainty that even George probably wouldn’t have known how to handle this conversation. “The person I was… _on a date_ with…was a guest, just passing through on the way to San Francisco. So nothing was going to happen. It was just a…social evening.”

Jim gave Chris a look that was _way_ too shrewd for a twelve-year-old, and Chris made a mental note to prevent him from hanging out with his drummer anytime soon. “Uh huh. What’s her name?”

Oh good, because this didn’t further complicate matters at _all_. _“His_ name is Phil,” Chris answered, deciding against obfuscation.

Jim frowned and cocked his head. It looked a lot like when Chris did it, and what part of Chris wasn’t terrified of how Jim might react to the sentence that had just come out of Chris’ mouth was proud to see a bit of himself in his son. “You were on a date with a guy?” Jim clarified.

“Yes,” Chris confirmed. 

Jim shrugged. “Cool.” He speared another slice of beef too big for his mouth and tried to fit it in.

“You okay with that?” Chris asked.

Jim shrugged again. “If it makes you happy, why do I care?”

It would not have been possible to quantify the relief Chris felt about that.

“You gonna see this Phil guy again?”

Chris shook his head. “No. I told you, he’s moving to San Francisco.”

Jim chewed thoughtfully. “That kinda sucks, Chris.” 

Chris slumped in the chair next to Jim. “That more than _sucks_ , kid.”

Jim smiled. “You liked him?”

“I liked him a _lot.”_ Chris ran a hand through his hair. “He even offered to bring us out there with him. Part of me wishes I could’ve taken him up on that.”

Jim paused in his fork’s passage to his mouth, then tossed it down into the takeout container. “Wait. _What?”_

Chris looked up at Jim, puzzled. “What?”

Jim stood up, agitation lacing his posture. “You’re telling me you were offered a chance to get us _out_ of this hellhole and you turned it _down?_ Why?”

“For you. Sit down, Jim.” When Jim didn’t, Chris put on his Marine voice. _“Sit down.”_

Jim sat, but was no less agitated. “I cannot believe this. I cannot _believe_ you could’ve gotten us out of here and _blew it.”_

“I _blew it_ , as you so _delicately_ put it, for your sake,” Chris clarified. “You’ve had enough turmoil in your life; I’m not about to uproot you from your home and move you halfway across the country.”

“And when have I _ever_ given you the impression that _I_ want to stay here?”

That gave Chris pause.

“Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to change my last name to yours so I don’t have to be a Kirk in Iowa?” Jim asked. “I go to a school named after my dead dad, for god’s sake. And I’m bored to tears there, Chris, and I’m always scared I’m gonna turn a corner and there’s gonna be my mother, or Frank, or…or S-Sam, or…” Jim turned away, swallowed, and tried to collect himself. “I can’t _stand_ it here. If you have an opportunity to get us _anywhere_ else, whether it’s San Francisco or New York or Austin or Montreal or Abu Dhabi or any place that _isn’t Iowa_ , then _take it!”_

Chris sat quietly with this for a second. Jim sniffed, trying to swallow back the emotion he’d unintentionally let go.

“Jim,” Chris began gently, “you need a full-time dad. I’ve never tried to be that to you anywhere but here.”

“I’m twelve, not three,” Jim pointed out. “I’m potty trained, I know how to lock the door, and I know not to let strangers in the room. House. Wherever we’d live.”

Chris folded his hands on the table. “It’s expensive, living someplace else. _Very_ expensive. I don’t know if I could make enough to keep food on the table. I barely do here.”

Jim scoffed incredulously. “You’re a _combat veteran_ , for god’s sake! In any city with a big military presence, won’t they be lined up around the block to hire you?” 

Chris shook his head dismissively. Jim was old enough to know that the veterans’ system was shit, but only in broad strokes, not necessarily in specifics. “This is the only place you’ve ever known.”

“And I’m wilting on the vine here,” Jim shot back.

Chris looked at his son, considering, then snorted a little. _“Wilting on the vine?”_

“Shut up,” Jim mumbled, “it was on a rerun of ‘Frasier’ while you were on your _date_ last night.”

Chris laughed, then rubbed his eyes. “Okay,” he said with finality. “Okay. I think we both could use some sleep.”

“I’m not dropping this, Chris.”

“I have yet to find a way to make you do so, kid.”

 

~

 

Jim went to sleep.

Chris did not.

He’d thought he was doing the right thing by keeping Jim in a familiar environment. Had he really been helping to foster Jim’s misery?

Now that he thought of it, he wasn’t really happy, either. The Enterprise Inn and Suites was a nice hotel to live in, but the pay downstairs was shit and it certainly couldn’t put Jim through college. Plus, this is hardly how he thought he’d spend his post-military career.

He wished George was over his shoulder, telling him what to do – but of course, if George were there, then Jim would be with _him_ , and Chris would’ve left with Phil yesterday and not looked back. Or, rather, Chris would never have been in Iowa in the first place, and maybe he and Phil would’ve met up in San Francisco, like the universe probably intended them to.

And as desperately as Chris missed George, the idea of Jim not being _his boy_ turned his stomach in frantic knots.

Jesus, he missed Phil. The little light in Phil’s eyes, the way his bangs fell in his face when he looked down, his gentle smile, his laugh, his genuine interest in everything about Chris and Jim, his intelligence, his smell, his touch…

Chris looked at the clock – 4:47. He climbed out of bed and turned the water in the shower on as hot as he could stand it, burying any further thoughts behind a cloud of steam.

 

~

 

When Jim woke up, Chris was standing in the door to his room, sipping coffee.

Jim wiped the sleep from his eyes, blinked, and winced. “You watching me sleep is creepy AF, Chris.”

“Creepy _AF?”_ Chris asked warily.

“You’re lame,” Jim singsonged to the ceiling, flopping back on his bed. 

“Quit watching MTV,” Chris said, sitting on Jim’s bed.

“I know exactly zero people in my age group who watch MTV,” Jim said.

“Jim.”

“Huh?”

“D’you wanna move to San Francisco?”

That got Jim’s attention. “Are you…are you being serious?”

“Yes.”

Jim sat up. “You’re really being serious?” he asked again. “We could go?”

“We could go,” Chris confirmed. “If you’re absolutely sure, we could go.”

Instead of answering, Jim flung his arms around Chris’ neck and clung to him, hard.

 

~

 

“Chris?” Jim said two weeks later, as they pulled out of the Enterprise Inn and Suites driveway for the last time, their belongings shoehorned in the trunk and backseat of Chris’ sedan.

“Yeah?”

Jim smiled. “Can you tell me a little about Phil?”

Chris looked over to his son, who looked as calm, sincere, and open as Chris had ever seen him, and smiled back. Then he began to talk.

 

~

 

The problem, Chris realized halfway through Utah, was that Chris had no way of finding Phil. He had a full name, a place he was going to school, and a state of birth, but not much else that was relevant. No phone number, no address, no email, even.

It was hardly priority one – food, shelter, employment, and Jim’s enrollment in school took precedence – but it was toward the top of Chris’ to-do list, and it was going to take some time.

 

~

 

A good friend of Chris’ from the Corps, Number One, graciously allowed Chris and Jim the use of her guest room until they found their own place – a process which would require an exorbitant amount of money, which would by extension require Chris to find a job, and one that paid quite well. Number One was brilliant, calm, and quiet; all things considered, if Chris had to live under somebody else’s roof, he couldn’t have picked better. It did necessitate Chris and Jim sharing the double bed in the guest room, but it was a small sacrifice.

Fortunately, Jim’s estimation of companies eager to hire a combat veteran wasn’t too off the mark, and Chris found work rather easily, consulting from home with an aerospace firm. Now it was just a matter of working enough hours and saving up what passed for three months’ rent in San Francisco.

Chris took Jim to the school district to enroll him in classes for the fall. When the placement testing was all said and done, Chris learned with a small electrical storm in his brain that his rising seventh grader should actually be a rising tenth grader, if not higher, and made arrangements to send Jim to a well-established high school for gifted kids, mercifully on scholarship.

“I told you I was bored,” Jim said with a shrug when Chris boggled at his test results.

 

~

 

Somewhere in there, Chris placed a call to UCSF.

“I’m not exactly sure if you can help me,” Chris said with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m looking for a medical student. Phil Boyce. I don’t have any contact info for him, but I know he’s at UCSF, and – ”

“Sir, I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, “I’m not able to give out any information about someone who may or may not be a student here. It’s a violation of federal privacy laws.”

“…Oh,” Chris said dumbly. “Oh. Okay. Can you, ah…can you offer me any other means of trying to find him?”

“Have you considered the phone book?” the receptionist answered dryly.

(Chris had. There was one potential candidate in the book, but he spelled his name with two Ls, not one. Chris called anyway; he was seventy-nine years old.)

“Thanks anyway.” Chris hung up and scrubbed his face. 

“You know what you could do,” Jim said from the doorway around a mouthful of apple.

Chris jumped; he hadn’t known Jim was there. “Jesus, kid.”

“You could go down to the hospital,” Jim said. “You said he’s a nurse, right? Maybe he’s working as a nurse while he’s in school.”

It wasn’t a half bad idea.

 

~

 

“Christopher?”

“Yes, _Laura?”_ Chris responded.

Number One glared – well, as close as she ever did. “Why are you going back down to the hospital?”

Chris paused in pulling on his jacket, then turned around. “How…how did you know about that?”

She gave him a long, flat, unimpressed look, one that said _I’m not an idiot_ for her.

Chris sighed enormously. “I’m…” he began, then restarted. “I’ve been trying to find…” 

Number One broke in as gently as she could. “Does this have anything to do with that guy you met in Iowa? The med student?”

Chris felt himself flush and let that be his confirmation.

Number One shook her head and sighed. “You never could let anything go, could you?”

Chris scowled. “I let _you_ go, didn’t I?” 

“Ah, no. I let _you_ go, Fuzzy.” 

“Oh dear god, do _not_ let my son hear you call me that.”

Number One snickered, then sobered. “Yeah, well. You’re not an idiot. You know when you’re playing with fire and to what degree. Just try not to get hurt, would you?”

Chris smiled softly, then hugged her and left to reacquaint himself with the security guard outside the ER’s entrance.

 

~

 

“I’ve got it!” Jim blurted out gleefully over a plate of what _might_ have, at one time, been edible chicken, before Number One got her hands on it.

“You’ve got what?” Chris asked flatly, trying to snuff out the taste of the dinner with a sip of his beer.

Jim pointed at Number One excitedly. “She can look him up! She can find him! I mean, the FBI can pull up just about anything on anybody whenever they want to, right? Number One could find him for you!”

Chris smiled softly at Jim’s exuberance, and Number One smiled too. “It’s a little more complicated than that, Jim,” she said gently. 

Jim sulked. “How?”

“Well, for one thing, I can’t just look up anything on anybody whenever I want to. I have to have an order to dig up dirt, or at the very least, a damn good reason to state in court as to why I went poking around in somebody’s personal business.” She paused to sip her wine. “Helping your dad track down a two-night stand doesn’t exactly constitute probable cause.”

Chris inclined his head, then looked up as Jim went still in his periphery.

“Two-night stand?” Jim asked.

“Oh great,” Chris intoned.

Jim rounded on Chris. “You…oh god…you had _sex_ with him?”

Chris winced hard. “Jim, that’s not really your bus – ”

Jim plugged his fingers in his ears, squeezed his eyes shut, and rocked back and forth, loudly singing _la la la la la!_ over and over, visibly trying to erase the mental image. 

Chris grimaced at Number One. “Thanks for that,” he called sarcastically above the din of Jim’s singing.

“Maybe next time you’ll think twice before you insult my cooking,” she replied, toasting the air with her wine glass.

 

~

 

“Here,” Number One said while Chris was in the middle of working. She tossed a flyer on the coffee table next to Chris’ legal pad; it was advertising a condo.

“What’s this?” Chris asked.

“A mea culpa for traumatizing your son with the mental image of you getting fucked into the mattress,” she said without even a drop of shame. “It’s ten minutes away, two bedrooms, two baths, a little farther from Jim’s school but not much, and within your price range.” She sat next to him. “You wanna go see it?”

They went. It was nice. Not as nice as his old condo, but Chris could see himself being happy here, could see Jim being happy here. After picking Jim up from school, he drove him over to see it, too.

“What do you think?” Chris asked, throwing his arms out in the kitchen.

Jim reached up and knocked gently on one of the brushed aluminum lights hanging low over the bar in the kitchen; it made a low _gong_ sound, and Jim smiled. “I like it.”

Chris signed the lease the next day.

 

~

 

Eight months.

They’d been in San Francisco for eight months.

Chris had found a new job. Jim had started at a new school. Both of them had had birthdays. They’d moved in to the new condo. Chris had started reestablishing friendships with people with whom he’d lost touch when he moved to Iowa. Jim had started establishing friendships, maybe the first genuine ones he’d ever had.

And Phil Boyce remained as much an invisible mystery as ever. 

Chris was starting to wonder if he’d just been a figment of his imagination in the first place, a hallucination brought on by intense loneliness and touch starvation and the dire need for adult conversation.

But then he thought about it for a few minutes, and…no. No, Phil had been real. As real as anything Chris had ever known.

Jim remained as optimistic as ever that eventually Chris would find Phil and they’d pick up right where they left off – but that was Jim. For all the torment the kid had been through, when it came to a good love story, the boy was thoroughly besotted by storybook romance. (Chris privately thought that he’d be totally fucked when Jim got around to taking an interest in girls, or boys, or whoever he was going to like.)

But Chris lived in the real world, and Chris knew that some things weren’t meant to be – and this, apparently, was one of them.

Maybe Phil wasn’t destined to be with Chris, or vice versa. Maybe the purpose of Phil coming into Chris’ life was to get him and Jim out of Iowa.

 _In which case it was worth it no matter what_ , Chris thought.

Chris stood up from his bed and walked over to the guitar on the stand by the window, the very one he was playing the night Phil walked into the hotel restaurant and knocked his whole world off-kilter. He plucked the A string gently, letting it reverberate in the air.

Part of his spirit had claw marks on his heart, begging him, _no, no, no, don’t let him go, not yet, not this one!_ , but Chris knew. The chips were down, all the options sucked, and there wasn’t a way out of this without heartbreak – it was a no-win scenario.

He might as well make it quick and clean.

“Bye, Phil,” he whispered.

He forced his inner voice to say that it was for the best. The cells in him knew that he was lying to himself with all his heart.

 

~

 

Chris came home from yet another horrendous blind date – how horrendous? Well, he was home by eight-thirty; you figure it out – to find the house unusually quiet. He peered around; Jim was curled up in bed, asleep. It was odd; Jim was a sprawler in his sleep, not a fetal position sleeper like Chris was.

“Jim,” Chris said. No response. He tried again, this time with a little shake. “Jim, it’s me.”

“Mmmrph,” Jim said from beneath the covers, pulling them up closer.

Chris frowned. “You okay?”

Jim was quiet for a moment, then spoke. “Just tired,” he mumbled. “Wanna sleep.” 

“That’s fine. It’s early, but it’s fine. Is your homework done?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Okay. Did you eat dinner?”

“‘m not hungry,” he said. He curled his back a bit tighter.

For Jim to not be hungry was stop-the-presses newsworthy, and it concerned Chris. “You sure you’re okay?”

“‘m fine, Chris. Just wanna sleep.” 

Chris sighed. “All right, son. I’m setting your alarm.”

“Mmkay.”

 

~

 

Chris was making breakfast the next morning when Jim came into the kitchen, clammy and pasty, hair sticking to his forehead, shirt soaked. His backpack was on his back, as if he was under the impression he was in any condition to go to school today.

“Are you out of your _mind?”_ Chris said. Jim just blinked up at him. “Back to bed. Now.”

“‘s just a cold,” Jim tried to say, swaying on the spot.

 _“Now,”_ Chris repeated, Marine Dad voice coming out.

“I have a bio lab today,” Jim moaned. “They won’t let me make it up.”

“I don’t care if you’re taking the bar exam today, Jim; you look like hell and you’re not leaving the house.” Chris ushered Jim into his room and handed his pajama pants back to him; Jim shucked his jeans, tugged the lounge pants on, and didn’t even bother changing his shirt before he climbed back in bed.

“I’ll go call the school,” Chris said. “You need anything? You want tea?”

Jim shook his head miserably. “Just sleep.”

“Okay, son.” Chris brushed a lock of hair off Jim’s forehead; he was burning up. “I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

 

~

 

Jim slept away the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon. Chris continued to check on him periodically, but the only times Jim was awake, he was in the bathroom. At one point, Chris tried to get an ear thermometer to work on Jim while he was sleeping, but he didn’t know how much to trust the result with the awkward angle at which he was working.

Around noon, a steady rain had started to fall outside; by one, it was a deluge. At one-thirty, Jim emerged from his room, poking his head into the living room where Chris was working.

He was white as a sheet, pouring sweat, and unsteady on his feet.

“Chris,” he said softly, “I really don’t feel good.” 

And then his knees gave out.

Chris dropped what he was working on and ran over to Jim, catching him just before he hit the floor full-body. “Okay, son,” he said decisively. “Okay. Put your arm around my neck. Come on.” He picked up Jim’s arm and looped it around his neck, then picked him up bridal-style and headed for the front door. “You and I are paying a visit to the emergency room.” 

Chris stepped out and hailed a cab, not trusting himself behind the wheel with his kid in such bad shape.

“UCSF Emergency, and step on it.”

The rain and the hour of the day meant that traffic was nightmarish, and when they were in sight of the hospital, Chris threw two twenties at the driver, growled, “I don’t have time for this,” and got out, picking Jim back up and carrying him in his arms down the street, running toward the emergency room.

Halfway there, Jim threw up. Chris barely noticed it. 

“‘m sorry, Dad,” Jim mumbled miserably.

Something warm and fiercely protective wrapped its fingers around Chris’ heart and dug in. He slowed to a fast walk as he approached the ER entrance that he knew so well, then bent his head and kissed Jim on the forehead. “It’s gonna be okay, son.”

Doctors and nurses and techs descended on Jim like locusts or some other such metaphorical insect, but Chris had eyes only for his boy, lying there, scared and miserable.

 

~

 

“What’s your name, pal?”

Jim blinked up at the friendly face in bright green scrubs above him and used the remaining energy in his body to mumble, “Jim Kirk.” 

“Hey, Jim,” the man greeted gently. “I’m Phil. I’m a nurse. I’m gonna help you today.”

Jim blinked in acknowledgement for want of the energy to do something more considerate.

“I’m gonna put a mask over your nose and mouth now, okay?” Phil said, holding it up. “It’s just oxygen. It might help you feel a little better.”

Jim blinked again. Phil fastened the mask on his face.

“All right. You’re gonna feel a poke here in just a second. I’m gonna put an IV in so we can get some fluids into you.”

“Mmkay,” Jim mumbled.

He barely felt the prick of the needle, barely felt the intense coolness of the lactated Ringer’s flowing into his vein, but somewhere in his fever-addled mind, something clicked.

“What’d you say your name was?” he asked the green-scrubbed man.

The nurse smiled. “I’m Phil.”

Then the world went fuzzy on the outside, the fuzziness crawled in, and things got very, very dark.

 

~

 

“Sir?” A woman had her hand on Chris’ elbow; he didn’t even notice her. “Sir? Could you come with me, please? I’d like to get some history on your son while they work to get him stabilized.”

Chris’ gut instinct was to stay by his boy’s side, but he followed her obediently to the foot of Jim’s bed, giving a squeeze to his foot.

“How old is your son?” she asked first.

“Thirteen.”

“Does he have any allergies?”

“Tons of them, food-wise. I think I have the list in my wallet.” Chris started patting his pockets, but she stopped him.

“It’s okay. What about eggs? Is he allergic to eggs?”

Chris shook his head. “No. Um, he’s allergic to some vaccine he got when he was a baby…the one for rubella, I think. But otherwise, no drug allergies.”

“Okay. How long has he been sick?”

Chris shook his head. “A few days, I think?” he said vaguely. “He’s thirteen; he doesn’t tell me much. I kept him home from school today and he skipped dinner last night to go to bed.”

“Do you know anything about his symptoms?”

Chris shook his head. “He, um, threw up on me when we were coming in…I guess, that?” 

“Got it. Okay. Any major health issues? Asthma, diabetes, that kind of thing?”

“No,” Chris replied. “He…he’s broken a lot of bones, but none since he was eight.”

“Good. Okay, that’s good. You’re doing really well.” Chris could tell the nurse was trying to placate him with praise; oddly, it both irked and comforted him. “What about family history?” 

“Nothing,” Chris said, then paused. “Wait – no, that’s not…no. Sorry. His dad had a thyroid thing.”

The nurse frowned. “I’m sorry – I thought _you_ were his father.” 

Chris shook his head. “Yeah, I am, just – his biological father, I mean. Jim’s adopted.”

The nurse nodded. “I’m sorry I assumed. Okay. This is really helpful, thank you.”

“Is he gonna be okay?” Chris couldn’t help but blurt. 

“They’re in with him right now trying to stabilize him,” the nurse said gently, “and as soon as we do, we’ll be able to figure out what’s go – ”

 _“Allie, he’s seizing, we need you, now!”_  

And she was gone to the head of the bed, and Chris’ gut was turning to stone, watching his son twitch and quiver on the hospital bed. Chris reached out and grabbed his foot again. It was all he could reach. He squeezed it tight.

Much, much too slowly for Chris’ liking, the twitching stopped and the seizure passed. Everyone went back to their own duties of starting IVs, drawing blood, and hooking up monitors to Jim’s chest. Chris squeezed his eyes shut and looked away, dangerously close to tears.

People started to filter from the room as things settled down, though again, Chris barely noticed who was around him, having eyes only for his boy. Finally, a hand rested on his shoulder; a woman about his age was addressing him.

“Are you his father?” she asked. When Chris nodded, she continued. “I’m Dr. Watts.”

Chris shook her hand, then repeated “Is he gonna be okay?” by way of introduction.

“I have no reason to believe that he won’t,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down and I can explain some of this to you.”

Chris sat next to Jim’s bed. Dr. Watts took the place at Jim’s feet. 

“So, we’re dealing with a couple of problems right now,” she said gently. “The first is his fever. When he came in, he was pushing 105. That’s why he had a seizure. Febrile seizures are more common in younger children, but even in a child your son’s age, they can happen when a fever gets _that_ high. The good news is that it’s starting to come down. At last check, he was down to 104. That’s still very high, but I’ll take it, by comparison. He’s on cooled IV fluids and has cool packs on his skin to try to leech that fever out.”

Chris swallowed, squeezing Jim’s hand. Dr. Watts continued. 

“His blood pressure’s low and he’s pretty dehydrated. All of this is consistent with a nasty bug, though this one might be nastier than most. My best guess at this point is that your son has the flu – a particularly virulent strain, perhaps, but a garden variety flu. That said, we got some blood, and I’m going to test him for some other things – pancreatitis, mono, something really rare called thyrotoxicosis – just to be safe. I’d also like to get a stool sample to check for parasites and some urine to check for urinary infections and STDs.”

Chris’ brain short-circuited at that last item on the list, and it must have showed, because Dr. Watts smiled sympathetically. “My suspicion is virtually nonexistent, but I have to check.”

Chris nodded numbly.

“Now,” she said, “if this is the flu, it’s going to pass on its own. However, because his fever’s this high, and because he’s this dehydrated, I’m going to admit him at least overnight, just to get the more dangerous symptoms under control before he goes home.”

Chris nodded, taking a second to find his voice. “Okay.”

“I have two daughters,” Dr. Watts said gently. “I know this is scary. But your son’s in excellent hands with us.”

“I know,” Chris said hoarsely. “Thank you.” 

“Do you have any questions?”

“Yeah,” Chris asked, “why is he sleeping, after all that? I mean, did you give him something, or…?”

“One of the drugs we gave to help break the seizure is called midazolam,” she said. “It’s a pretty powerful sedative. He’ll probably be out for the rest of the night.”

Chris squeezed Jim’s hand again. “Can I stay with him?”

Dr. Watts nodded. “Consider it done.” She shook Chris’ hand again. “One of the nurses will come get you when we get a bed ready upstairs.”

 

~

 

“Dad?”

Chris blinked awake; the voice was incredibly bleary, but clear. He pushed himself off the cot and over to Jim’s bed. “I’m here, Jim.”

Jim was blinking over and over, frowning, confused, scared. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Chris soothed. “You’re in the hospital. You’re gonna be fine.”

“Wha’s wrong wi’ me?” Jim mumbled.

“Just a flu bug, son,” Chris answered, brushing hair off Jim’s forehead. “You’re pretty sick, but you’re gonna be fine. They just want to keep an eye on you for a little while.”

Jim looked around weakly, wiping his eyes, wincing as he bent the arm with the IV in it. “‘m sorry.”

“Jim,” Chris said, wrapping his arms around his son, “there’s nothing to be sorry about. You’re sick. It happens. It’s okay.”

“‘m gonna fail bio,” Jim said miserably. “Didn’t go to lab. Gonna fail.” 

“I am not gonna let that happen,” Chris said confidently, “so don’t worry about it. All I want you to think about is getting well.”

Jim blinked up at Chris, his big blue eyes wet around the edges. “Glad you’re here, Dad.”

There went the squeezing feeling of his heart again. Chris smiled hugely, then grabbed Jim’s hand. “You know,” he said quietly, “you’ve never called me _dad_ before today.”

Jim looked down, embarrassed. “Didn’t know if you’d be okay with it,” he mumbled. 

“Why wouldn’t I be okay with it?” 

“Because my dad – my _other_ dad – was your best friend,” Jim said softly. “Didn’t want you to think I was…dunno…not respecting him.” Jim swallowed. “Plus, you got stuck with me, so.”

“No,” Chris clarified, “no. I didn’t _get stuck_ with you. I _wanted_ you. Not just because you were George’s kid. Not just because of everything you went through. Because you’re _Jim_ , and you’re an amazing kid, and you’re gonna be an incredible man, and I wanted to be a part of that.” He swallowed. “Whatever sacrifices I may have had to make to help that happen? Worth it. Every one of them.” Chris cupped Jim’s cheek and turned it, so they were looking one another in the eye. “You are my son, and I am incredibly proud of you.”

Jim smiled, tugging on Chris’ shirt to hug him again. “So I can call you Dad?” Jim said quietly.

“I would love that,” Chris answered.

 

~

 

The following afternoon, Chris and Jim were eating what was _supposed_ to be lime-flavored Jello from little cups and watching a shitty soap opera when Jim looked over at Chris with a start. 

“I just remembered something.”

Chris raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“The nurse who was with me in the ER.”

“You had a lot of nurses in the ER, kid,” Chris said, slurping his Jello off the spoon.

“The one who gave me oxygen,” Jim elaborated. “The one who put my IV in.” He held up his arm with the IV in it. 

Chris nodded, wondering where Jim was going with this. “Okay…”

A slow smile crept over Jim’s face. “His name was Phil.”

 

~

 

After being kicked out of the room by his teenage, _allegedly very sick_ son – complete with commentary about _consider it my dying wish!_ and from where did Jim learn to be such a smartass? Oh, right, George’s son being raised by Chris, recipe for disaster – Chris made his way down to the ER with a not-insignificant amount of trepidation.

_That might not even be him. Phil’s a common enough name. I bet there are tons of RNs named Phil in San Francisco alone._

_Phil might not even_ be _working as a nurse right now. Med school’s a lot of work; maybe he decided not to try to do both._

_Maybe Jim made it up. He was out of his mind with fever, after all._

_Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s him._

Chris privately lamented that he might be seeing Phil again while wearing a threadbare USMC t-shirt and jeans that still had a spot of Jim’s vomit on them from yesterday, but he walked up to the nurses’ station anyway.

“Hi,” he said softly. “This might be kind of unorthodox, but my son was in here yesterday – Jim Kirk – and got admitted to the third floor. He’s up there now, but he said one of the nurses with him yesterday was really good with him. Phil, it was. I’d like to thank him, if I could.”

The nurse at the desk smiled. “Oh, I think you mean Phil Boyce!”

Chris’ heart started to quiver erratically in his chest.

“He’s wonderful, isn’t he? I think he’s with a patient right now, but we’re not too busy; do you want to head to the family waiting room? I can have Phil come say hi to you when he’s done.”

Chris nodded and tried to get his tongue to say _thank you_. Something unintelligible came out instead. He let himself be led to the family waiting room, sat down, and breathed.

 

~

 

“Phil?”

Phil looked up from where he was typing vitals into the computer, wiping one eye behind his glasses, and smiled at his coworker.

“Hot dad in the family waiting room wants to thank Phil the nurse for the care he gave his son yesterday.” 

Phil smiled, closing out the electronic records system. “Who, that super febrile kid? He doing okay?”

“Did you miss the part where I said _hot dad?”_

Phil rolled his eyes, walking away. “Thank you, Gloria,” he called without looking back. 

He was still smiling when he walked into the family waiting room – and then his heart skittered to a complete stop.

He blinked once, twice, a third time. All the saliva in his mouth evaporated. He felt incredibly aware of his pulse, thrumming along in his neck. Finally, he forced his tongue to form the word.

_“Chris?”_

Chris stood on slightly shaky legs, walking closer to Phil, slowly, then stopping right in front of him.

_“Phil.”_

Chris’ arms came around Phil, and Phil felt his eyes welling with tears. Phil clung to Chris, the pads of his fingers digging into his back, feeling Chris’ hand press into the back of his neck, his long fingers twining in the hairs at the back of his head. He felt a quiver in Chris’ shoulders; he was crying too.

“Oh my god,” Phil said into the soft gray fabric of Chris’ t-shirt. “Oh my god.”

“I’ve been looking for you,” Chris said softly. “I’ve tried so hard to find you, and you were here, right here.”

Phil pulled away, grabbed Chris by the shoulders, and pressed their foreheads together. “How long have you been here?”

Chris ran a firm hand up Phil’s spine into his hair. “We left two weeks after you did.”

Phil felt his face crumple. “Why’d you come back?”

Chris smiled. “My son pulled my head out of my ass,” he said softly. “In a lot of ways.” 

Phil wept, arms going back around Chris, swaying back and forth with him, feeling Chris sprinkle kisses on his temple.

“Chris?” Phil chanced. “Can we try this for real?”

Chris smiled hugely, little laugh lines appearing at the corners of his eyes. “Well, you’ve already won my son’s approval,” he said smartly.

“Is that a yes?” 

Chris leaned in and whispered, “That’s a yes,” against Phil’s mouth before he kissed it.

 

~

 

 

_Three Years Later_

~

“Can I drive?”

Chris groaned, hanging his dress blues up in the backseat of the car. “No.”

“Can I drive just to the graduation?”

“No.”

Jim climbed into the passenger’s seat. “Can I drive just _back_ from the graduation?”

Chris started the ignition. “No.”

“Can I drive just to the reception hall?”

_“James.”_

“Shutting up, sorry.”

Chris rubbed his temple.

 

~

 

Phil laced his fingers behind Chris’ neck, letting his mortarboard fall into the grass with a light _thwick,_ and gave him a long, thorough, extremely public kiss.

“Aww. You two are gross,” Jim muttered fondly, leaning against a nearby tree and spectating.

“What’s – ” _kiss_ “ – our boy – ” _kiss_ “ – grousing about – ” _kiss_ “ – now?”

Chris shook his head. “Ignore him, _Doctor Boyce._ Ignore him.”

 

~

 

Three hours later, in a little reception hall just off Market Street, a pair of new husbands had their first dance to a song they both knew well by now, about pride and open doors and an island sky. One Chris had taught himself shortly after George died, and one Phil had heard for the first time in a hotel restaurant in Iowa City.

It wasn’t a love song, not really. Except for how it totally was.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Tumblr user loststarlight's commentary - see what you did?! ;)
> 
> The song in question is "Wouldn't It Be Nice To Be Proud" by Evan and Jaron, from which I also derived the title of this story.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


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